Drifting..

Since I last wrote here, things have changed somewhat (surprise, surprise). I went to my Buddhism class last Wednesday evening which gave me such an uplift that I thought things were going to change for the better. However, not so. I was given a shocking piece of news on Friday evening, when someone told me that I am too old to be hanging around with the people I do. This made me think. I don’t actively choose to hang around with young people; it’s just that the lifestyle I lead means that I come into contact with more young people than I do with old people. I simply don’t know anyone of my age.

This led to me to question why this is. And the answer has to be that it is because I am rootless and adrift. Most people of my age are settled and established; probably winding down towards retirement, even with grandchildren. They have their routines and their time-honoured circle of old friends with whom they share interests and pursuits, and they have stability. Whereas I – who has been pitch-poled into the vortex of my chaotic life – am drifting, rudderless. Ipso facto, the people I generally associate with are in a similar state in their lives and ipso facto those sort of people understandably tend to be the young.

Even so, the news I received on Friday evening pulled me up sharply. Not only did it bring into question the dignity (or lack thereof) of someone my age running around with a bunch of kids, but it questioned the very meaning of my daily life. It’s as if I have no back-story; as if there never were that 'pillar of the community' I spoke about the other day – the one who raised a family, built a home, and kept down a good steady job for years. It’s as if I have arrived fresh from school and have it all to do again. Do I have the energy for that? Moreover, do I have the inclination?

So on Friday evening I went home to lick my wounds and reflect. Despite having a ticket to attend the biggest party ever at The Malt Cross on Saturday evening, I decided to stay away from the fleshpots of the young for a while and to undertake some reconnaissance of my situation. Instead, Saturday evening was therefore fairly low-key – we sat in Edin’s speaking Spanish and French (or trying to) and Edin sat with us. He brought with him a huge water melon which he expertly dissected and which we all devoured with relish. Once again, it was (as someone else described it) the United Colours of Benetton – sitting round the table there was an Italian, a Greek, a Bosnian, a Spaniard, a Frenchwoman, two Columbians, an Australian, and me.

Next question: When I’m not hanging around exclusively with young people, why am I hanging around with foreigners? Hmm, interesting. Do you remember me telling you about the blindfold game we played on the beach that time? Perhaps my problem is that I don’t bleat, moo, whinney or oink-oink loudly enough and so I’ll never find people who are the same as me. Perhaps I wouldn’t want to. I've never been one to hunt with the pack, me.